Snippets of life in the Kobayashi household
by a couple of blankets
Summary: Some fluff written on work breaks in hopes that I can pull myself together for a full story at some point.
1. Home and work

Tohru's unconscious, dream-spurred tail twitches were the worst thing about her spending the night in bed. Fat, rippled poil snaked around the hips; roiling tides of sheen scales slipped between the legs. She could hardly control her fiery demeanor during the day, so with fantasies running amok in the depths of sleep, the arcane serpent's meaty tail squired and slapped a steady din of groans and hisses out of her beloved office lady. Over a number of months, with Tohru's nightly intrusions slowly becoming more regular—more tolerated—Kobayashi's stream of standard "No"s and "Stop"s had given way to gentler "Enough..."s before crumbling into "Fine"s, dry sighs and skittish glances from dead-fish eyes.

* * *

/

So-called "death marches" were no foreign event to the Oborozuka branch of the Jigokumeguri Corporation, but even the most hardened of salary workers still dreaded the idea of an office sleepover: less of a night's sleep and more of an extended lunch break with a baked-in nap time. Orderly cubicles and walkways had warped into narrow, winding fjords: splayed-out, snoring bodies and satchel bag pillows bumbled Kobayashi's steps into awkward, achy paces toward an empty spot against the wall. She slumped down, crumpled by exhaustion but grateful that she didn't have to tolerate the office tile. With no one to witness, the workaholic programmer vanished from perception; and while she still held certain aspects of a maid's expected conduct as uncompromising truths, she had slowly warmed up to the advantages of one's own maid being a mythical beast from a magical world.

Tohru hummed a soothing lullaby, cradling her master's head in her lap. Carnation-white fingers gently combed through salmon-pink bangs, tracing a tender touch along cheek and jaw. Kobayashi mumbled; head wordlessly turned into Tohru's hand. Face nestled in that familiar, charcoal-blue frock, her nose picked up on her dragon's other-worldly scent: a sort of dry, earth-dusted pine kindling—a burning green; rich and dancing with a comfortable energy. It wasn't long before Kobayashi had drifted to sleep, the slightest smile on her face as Tohru's thick, smooth-scaled tail soothed the stress from her lady's lower back with gentle, rhythmic rubbing.

* * *

/

Maids, of course, on some level, were indeed a part of the family. They were a reliable, charming and encouraging face within the household: a comforting presence in any room, hallway or outdoor space as they performed any number of odd jobs which kept a master's daily life in order. Yet among all of the Victorian paragons poised in postures of distinguished servitude and neatly staggered across the living room wall upon calendar cut-outs, Kobayashi found not one lounging on a sofa at day's end, cuddling up and sighin softly into the household head's shoulder. What horrified the maid fanatic more so was how she tolerated Tohru's behavior; nay even looked forward to it with a subdued, self-aware and self-depreciating giddiness.

Empty beer can rested on the table. Television droned evening news. Quiet din of summer wind and passing cars sluiced through the apartment's ajar balcony door. Yet Tohru's breathing was all that Kobayashi heard. The svelte pressure of interlocked fingers: her only palpable sensation. Thumb swirled sudden circles into Tohru's palm, but the dragon's only reply was a sleepy, half-conscious moan. Head tilted away and teeth pulled at lower lip as Kobayashi wondered if a peaceful, napping Tohru might not wake from just a little peck to the forehead.


	2. After work, before a day off

Even in a home with three other occupants, Kobayashi still managed to drink alone. Granted only one of the three could pass for drinking age, but she acted more like the puritan wife to an overindulgent husband rather than one with whom Kobayashi could count on for an after-work, red-faced rant. Even so, tomorrow was a rare day-off from computer code drudgery. Takiya said that he already had early morning plans, but Kobayashi would not be denied a night in the warm, woozy embrace of humanity's age-old ally against stress; and that left only one other candidate for "weekend drinking buddy." As much as the programmer regretted pouring this vice upon the pure facade of a maid's demeanor, she rummaged through the cupboard until her hands felt shaped glass. Fire-gem eyes watched intently from the sofa as the matron of the house approached with a bottle of sake and two short glasses. Kobayashi knew that Tohru wouldn't resist if she conjured up the image of the night they met.

Tohru's mouth popped agape; the sudden mention of their long-ago mountain meeting dusted blush across her cheeks. Black-slit serpent pupils shrank and skittered low to the floor as she sheepishly accepted Kobayashi's extra glass. It was a quality, rainy day liquor stashed away for a special occasion—not something to guzzle on just any particular day, but the exhausted programmer knew that, even with three dragons rolling around her apartment, her life was somehow just as mundane as ever (and that, in the meanwhile, there was some really good booze just collecting dust on a shelf). Glass clinked, and the pair shared a loud sigh after their first drink—followed by a few seconds of giddy chuckling.

The mountain was on their lips: that wild night and the abrasive encounter between battle-wounded dragon and overworked salarywoman. Between rounds, Tohru, now with crimson in her cheeks to match her irises, took time to gnash Iruru's name between her fangs. The precious forest clearing where she met her Kobayashi: vaporized out of misplaced, childish spite. The tipsy woman remarked how the mountain technically yet existed, a little swiss-cheesed, but still intact. The two stared at each other a moment before Kobayashi quietly asked if her dragon wanted to go flying.

Flight upon the back of a giggling, sake-soaked dragon might have been wholly terrifying if Kobayashi were not equally drunk herself. Bumpy swoops, dizzy loops and tail-flick swerves cropdusted Oborozuka's moonlit sky with the enraptured, giddy cackling of a love-struck dragon and her office lady master. Below them, building lights and bright signs swirled and streaked at blistering speeds: the city like a microchip. Eventually, paved highways thinned into single lanes and gravel; concrete gave way to grass and paddies. Silhouetted peaks speared the sky's silver cloudscape; and there it appeared: sheer-sided mountaintop like a giant's throne—their mountain.

With a mighty flap of Tohru's tremendous, black wings, they made landfall. Sliding down from her dragon's back, Kobayashi, sloshed as she was, had a moment of clarity: it felt as if Iruru was still a recent addition to the household, yet beneath her feet, grass and tree stalks had already sprouted across the mountain's recent, plateau renovation. How long had Tohru been a part of her life? Fingers slipped over smooth, chainmail scales. An absentminded pinch drew the beast's attention. Long neck craned around; titantic maw parted; giant, drool-drip fangs shimmered in the moonlight, yet the only thing that Kobayashi saw was the most serene glimmer in her maid's gehenna-red eyes.


	3. Summer weather night

Scales, tails, black pupils like a thin, inky stroke from a calligrapher's brush. They often slither-strode on four legs, and their forked tongues flickered from lipless maws. Dragons were entirely serpentine in every recognizable aspect, but in the course of her maid's tenure, Kobayashi had noted one peculiar difference; and one hot summer night, long after Kanna had slipped into bed, her fingers sampled a quick reminder. Tohru gasped as she felt her master's probing, spindly-finger touch. Dead-fish eyes fixated forward while lanky, keyboarder digits squeezed and wiggled up the maid's forearm. Yet before the dragon could blurt out her rosy-cheek surprise, Kobayashi flatly uttered the word on her mind: "Warmblooded." It was true. Whenever Tohru had found an opportunity for clingy behavior, the lady of the house was quick to note her servant's tender, uncanny aura of warmth.

Kobayashi pried about it. After all, it made more sense biologically for something like a dragon to be coldblooded. The haughty, smug-smile mention of superior beings was again the blanket response for this issue, and the human acquiesced with a huff; and then acknowledged the facts with another pinch. Tohru squirmed on the spot: hips bowed toward each other; free hand quivered along her own cheek and jaw. The dragon cried out her beloved's name and melted over her bony shoulders, but Kobayashi quickly objected to the hot, stifling weight. After all, warmblood is almost a hassle in a sweltering summer; but of course, the mythical serpent sorcerer had answers for nearly all conundrums of nature's designs.

An arcane circle hummed and glazed Tohru's body in a cool, smoky sheen. Kobayashi immediately swooned. Shapeshifting from dragon to maid was one thing, but in heat like this, the sudden switch of Tohru's arms from sticky, sweltering blanket into silken, snowpack chiffon was a little too much for the overheated office lady to resist. Trepidaciously leaning into the poofy frills of her magical maid's personal AC field, the office lady gave the quiet order for her maid to stay wrapped about her for the rest of that night (and all subsequent hot summer nights).


	4. Victorian temptation

Back arched, toes curled, fingers clutched and hot breath dampened polka-dotted comforter. Another "How did I let this happen?" smoldered at the back of Kobayashi's mind as her dragon's girthy tail squirmed against her bare thigh. She should have seen the devious motive behind Tohru's sudden wardrobe change: an entire day—a Sunday even and thus a rare day off—catered by a delicate dragon maid dressed in garb ripped straight from a Victorian codex of conduct in household servitude. Hair in bun; tucked beneath plain, white cap. Frills had vanished—usurped by the function and formality of a stock, white apron over coal-black gown. Fire-gem eyes kept steady and low. Head rested half-bowed in every task performed. But between each round of dusting, each plate set on the table, each new beer fetched from the fridge, Tohru's dainty words scraped at Kobayashi's maid-crazy core:

"Of course, my lady."  
"It is my pleasure, my lady."  
"As you wish, my lady."

And late at night, settled snugly in the couch cushions, long after the alcohol had begun to simmer in the overworked programmer's veins, warm whispers tempted like a finger tracing circles at her neck:

"Are you comfortable, my lady?"  
"Anything you wish, my lady?"  
"You know that I am yours, my lady."

Gracelessly, in her arrogance of encyclopedic maid knowledge and the mind-swill of few too many malt beers, the household's lady fell from noble breadwinner to pampered blueblood. Hands cupped, pressed and squeezed. Hoarse orders eeked out between gulps and heavy breaths; and it wasn't long before Kobayashi sobered up enough to ask herself how she could have tarnished her beloved ideals and lament how her hands would not stop their pinching and clutching; her legs their kicking and locking; her voice its incessant calling of her maid's name again and again, louder and louder until—

dragon claws ripped away the polka-dotted comforter from atop Kobayashi's dainty, lucid-dreaming body. Wild fantasy fizzled, and dreamless dark creaked open. Cloaked in witching hour moonlight, the blurry silhouette of a cosplay maid loomed over bedside. Kobayashi seized in horror; guts curled with embarrassment as the inertia of her sensual dream careened into a brief moment of waking reality—her mind still entangled in the shameful brambles of hypocrisy begotten by the throes of forbidden ecstasy with a Victorian Tohru.

Meanwhile, the maid who had lived with her all this time only leaned closer, face contorted in worry, asking why Kobayashi had been calling her name so frantically in the middle of the night. Wordlessly, panicked gasps slowed into calm breaths and a quiet apology. It was only a dream, and Kobayashi, blush still painted upon her face, assured her maid that she was fine, even if she wanted Tohru to stay the rest of the night. An exhausted Kobayashi slumped back into her pillow, and dead fish eyes shut once more, but only to focus, to gather shards of a shattered image: Tohru in a plain, black, frock; hair in a bun; white, starched apron draped over her chest and tied about her hips—an image which she sleepily described to her bedside maidragon, and one which she asked if Tohru wouldn't mind adopting for a day.


End file.
